I can’t leave the #Sunday Sentence project alone until I’ve squeezed one last poem from it.
His writing entered rooms dark
like birds reveling in their reach.
This frightened him to know
his word children bullied their way:
into rooms of people in deepest night
into the bright of their days
dragging ice in their wake.
He felt then his whole life
was some kind of dream.
Wondered whose it was,
whether they were enjoying it.
He avoided the den and his desk
there the wide smooth expanse.
Woke at odd moments, thinking
I don’t want to go to work tomorrow.
He wanted the dark chapters to turn.
With a new pen paper begging touch,
he returned mise-en-scène. Wrote
summer mountain twilight, thick
with the smell of wet wood. Wrote
twilight the fragrance children imagine
as possibility. Wrote spring, the surprise
of birdsong, the tumble-down romance of it all.
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Tip for tonight’s poem
I really liked Brenda’s poem and want her to continue writing great poems.